LETTER XLIII.
Miss DELVES to Mrs. DELVES.
Barford Abbey.
Are you well, Madam? Is my dear father well? Tell me you are, and never was so happy a creature as your daughter. I tremble with pleasure,—with joy,—with delight:—but I must—my duty, my affection, every thing says I must sit down to write.—You did not see how we were marshall'd at setting out:—I wish you could have got up early enough:—never was there such joyous party!
All in Lady Mary's dining-room by seven;—the fine equipages at the door;—servants attending in rich new liveries, to the number of twenty;—Lord Darcey and his heavenly bride that is to be,—smiling on each other,—smiling on all around;—Lady Mary Sutton—yes, she is heavenly too;—I believe I was the only earthly creature amongst them;—Lord and Lady Hampstead,—the angelic Ladies Elizabeth and Sophia,—Mr. Molesworth,—the generous, friendly, open-hearted Mr. Molesworth,—Lord Hallum.—But why mention him last?—Because, Bessy, I suppose he was last in your thoughts.—Dear Madam, how can you think so?
In Lady Mary's coach went her Ladyship, Lord Darcey, Mrs. and Miss Powis:—in Lord Hampstead's, his Lordship, Lady Hampstead, Lady Elizabeth, and Mr. Molesworth:—in Lord Darcey's, Lady Sophia, Mr. Powis, Lord Hallum, and your little good-for-nothing:—in Mr. Powis's, the women-servants.—We lay fifty miles short of the Abbey, and the next evening reach'd it at seven.
We reach'd Barford Abbey, I say—but what shall I say now?—I cannot do justice to what I have seen of duty,—of affection,—of joy,—of hospitality.—Do, dear Madam, persuade my father to purchase a house in this neighbourhood.
Servants were posted at the distance of six miles to carry intelligence when we should approach.—I suppose in their way back it was proclaim'd in the village:—men, women, and children, lined the road a mile from the Abbey, throwing up their hats with loud huzzaing,—bells ringing in every adjacent parish;—bonfires on every rising ground;—in short, we were usher'd in like conquerors.—The coachmen whipp'd up their horses full speed through the park;—thump, thump, went my heart, when by a number of lights I discover'd we were just at the house.
What sensations did I feel when the carriages stopp'd!—At the entrance stood Sir James and Lady Powis,—the Chaplain,—Mr. Morgan,—Captain Risby,—you know their characters, Madam;—every servant in the house with a light:—but who could have stay'd within at this juncture?
The first coach that drove up was Lady Mary's. Out sprang Lord Darcey, Miss Powis in his hand; both in a moment lock'd in parental embraces.—Good heaven, what extasy!—I thought Mr. Watson and Mr. Morgan would have fought a duel which should first have folded Miss Powis in his arms, whilst Sir James and Lady Powis quitted her to welcome Lady Mary.—We were all receiv'd tenderly affectionate:—a reception none can have an idea of, but those who have been at Barford Abbey.
In my way to the house, I suppose I had a hundred kisses:—God knows from whom.—What can I say of Lord Hampstead's family?—what of Mr. Molesworth?—The general notice taken of him is sufficient.—Absolutely that charming man will be spoil'd.—Pity to set him up for an idol!—I hope he will not always expect to be worshipp'd—Mr. Risby too—Well, I'll mention you all, one after another, as fast as possible.—Let me see, where did I leave off?—Oh! we were just out of our carriages.—And now for the pathetics:—an attempt;—a humble attempt only.
Lady Powis, Lady Mary, and their darling, had given us the slip.—What could be done?—I mean with Mr. Morgan:—he was quite outrageous.—What could be done? I repeat.—Why Sir James, to pacify him, said, we should all go and surprize them in his Lady's dressing-room.—We did go;—we did surprize them;—great God! in what an attitude!—The exalted Lady Powis at the feet of Lady Mary;—Miss Powis kneeling by her;—she endeavouring to raise them.—I said it would be an attempt at the pathetics;—it must be an attempt:—I can proceed no farther.
To be sure, Mr. Morgan is a queer-looking man, but a great favourite at the Abbey.—He took Miss Powis on his knee;—call'd her a hundred times his dear, dear daughter;—and I could not forbear laughing, when he told her he had not wore a tye-wig before these twenty years. This drew me to observe his dress, which, unless you knew the man, you can have no idea how well it suited him:—a dark snuff-colour'd coat with gold buttons, which I suppose by the fashion of it, was made when he accustomed himself to tye-wigs;—the lace a rich orrice; but then it was so immoderately short, both in the sleeves and skirts, that whilst full dress'd he appeared to want cloathing.
The next morning,—ay, the next morning, then it was I lost my freedom.—Disrob'd of his gingerbread coat, I absolutely sell a sacrifice to a plain suit of broad cloth,—or rather, to a noble, plain heart.—Now pray, dear Madam, do not cross me in my first love;—at least, see Mr. Morgan, before you command me to give him up:—and you, sweet Sir, steal to a corner of your new possession, whilst I take notice of those who are capering to my fingers ends.
You have seen Miss Powis, Madam, on Mr. Morgan's knee;—you have heard him say enough to fill any other girl than myself with jealousy:—nay, Madam, you may smile;—he really makes love to me.—But for a moment let me forget my lover;—let me forget his melting sighs,—his tender protections,—his persuasive eloquence,—his air so languishing:—let me forget them all, I say, and lead you to the library, where by a message flew Miss Powis.—A look from her drew me after:—I suppose Lord Darcey had a touch from the same magnet.
A venerable pair with joy next to phrenzy caught her in their extended arms, as the door open'd. My kind, my dear, ever dear friends, said the lovely creature,—and is it thus we meet? is it thus I return to you?—Mr. Jenkings clasp'd her to him; but his utterance was quite choak'd:—the old Lady burst into a flood of tears, and then cried out,—How great is thy mercy, O God!—Suffer me to be grateful.—Again she flew to their arms;—again they folded her to their bosoms.—Lord Darcey too embrac'd them;—he condescendingly kiss'd their hands;—he said, next to the parents of his Fanny,—next to Lady Mary, they were most dear to him.—Miss Powis seated herself between them, and hung about the neck of Mrs. Jenkings;—whilst his Lordship, full of admiration, look'd as if his great soul labour'd for expression.—
Overcome with tender scenes, I left the library.—I acquainted Lady Mary who was there, and she went to them immediately.—Mr. Watson and Mr. Morgan for a quarter of an hour were all my own;—captain Risby, Mr. Molesworth, Lady Elizabeth and Sophia, being engag'd in a conversation at another part of the room:—you may guess our subject, Madam;—but I declare, whilst listening to Mr. Watson, I thought myself soaring above earthly enjoyments.—
Sir James, who had follow'd Lady Mary, soon return'd with her Ladyship, Miss Powis, Lord Darcey, and, what gave me heart-felt pleasure, the steward and his wife;—an honour they with difficulty accepted, as they were strangers to Lord Hampstead's family.—
Who says there is not in this life perfect happiness?—I say they are mistaken:—such felicity as I here see and partake of, cannot be call'd imperfect—How comes it that the domestics of this family so much surpass those of other people?—how is it one interest governs the whole?—I want to know a thousand mysteries.—I could write,—I could think eternally,—of the first happy evening.—First happy evening do I say? And can the days that crown that eve be forgot?—Heaven forbid! at least whilst I have recollection.—My heart speaks so fast to my pen, that fain my fingers would,—but cannot keep up with it.
The next morning Lord Darcey introduc'd to us the son of Mr. Jenkings.—A finer youth I never saw!—Well might the old gentleman be suspicious.—Few fathers would, like him, have sacrificed the interest of a son, to preserve that of a friend.—To know the real rank of Miss Powis;—her ten thousand virtues;—her great expectations; yet act with so much caution!—with an anxiety which the most sordid miser watching his treasure, could not have exceeded! and for what?—Why lest involuntarily she might enrich his belov'd son with her affections.—Will you part with me to this extraordinary man?—Only for an hour or two.—A walk is propos'd.—Our ramble will not be farther than his house.—You say I may go. Thank you, Madam: I am gone.
Just return'd from the steward's, so cramm'd with sweet-meats, cake, and jellies, that I am absolutely stupified.
I must tell you who led Miss Powis.—Lord Darcey, to be sure.—No, Madam; I had the favour of his Lordship's arm:—it was Edmund.—I call him Edmund;—every body calls him Edmund;—yes, and at Lord Darcey's request too.—Never shall I forget in what a graceful manner!—But his Lordship does every thing with grace.—He mention'd something of past times, hinting he should not always have courted him to such honour, presenting the hand of his belov'd.
I wish I could send you her look at that moment; it was all love,—all condescension.—I say I cannot send it.—Mortifying! I cannot even borrow it.
Adieu, dear Madam!—Adieu, dear Sir!—Adieu, you best of parents—It is impossible to say which is most dear to your ever dutiful and affectionate
E. DELVES.